


Tensegrity

by Saathi1013



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Multi, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Getting involved with Matt was like putting all her eggs in one basket, and then throwing that basket off a roof.</i>
</p><p>Written for Nysscientia, who said:</p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>I have a major desire to see a) more Claire Temple, b) Claire Temple kissing another lady of the MCU, c) Claire Temple negotiating poly with Matt, or possibly d) all of the above. </p>
</blockquote><br/>And for Gabby_Silang, who said the other MCU lady should be Nat.
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nysscientia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nysscientia/gifts), [nicasio_silang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicasio_silang/gifts).



> Written prior to watching Age of Ultron, Jessica Jones, and DDs2; fully expecting this to be non canon-compliant and Jossed HARD.
> 
> No beta; grammar/spelling errors, if pointed out, will be corrected ASAP. Additional concrit: pm me.
> 
>  _ **Tensegrity** , **tensional integrity** or **floating compression** , is a structural principle based on the use of isolated components in compression inside a net of continuous tension, in such a way that the compressed members (usually bars or struts) do not touch each other and the prestressed tensioned members (usually cables or tendons) delineate the system spatially._ \-- [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tensegrity)

**\- x -**

 

There's a man in room 1195 whose x-rays reminds Claire of the glaze on her grandmother's china tea service, which had been bought second- or possibly third-hand from an estate sale, delicate blue flowers and lace-like trim beneath a fine web of voranoi cracks in the clear glaze.  They weren't damaged, of course, but when Claire was young, it had seemed incredible, impossible, that a cup could look so cracked and yet remain intact.  

This patient's bones remind her of that; he's suffered years of damage, over and over, each fracture barely knit before another had been earned.  He'd been brought in early last night, and though he's been stabilized and is resting 'comfortably,' Claire can't help but check in on him more often than is _strictly_ necessary.  She has the feeling she knows his type, and she'll be damned if she doesn't take the opportunity to ensure that this one stays under proper supervision.

Okay, maybe there's a little bit of transference going on.  She's okay with that.

As it turns out, she's not the only one keeping a close eye on him.  The next time she visits, there's a figure curled up in a chair in the corner, bright blue visitor wristband peeking out from the cuff of their sweatshirt, hood pulled over the person's face.  Claire can see an errant lock of straight red hair, a sharp chin, and not much more in the shadows.

Quiet as she can to not disturb either patient or his visitor, Claire snags his chart, checks his vitals, makes a few notes as needed.  When she turns around, she sees the alert glitter of the woman's gaze, watchful and stoic.  The curl of her body hasn't shifted, but now it seems poised like a spring instead of tucked into slumber.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she tells the woman, and gives herself points for keeping her voice even.

"You didn't," the woman says, because _of course_.

"Are you Mr. Barton's...?"

"Emergency contact," the woman says, quirking one side of her mouth.  "We... work together."

_A ha_ , Claire thinks.  "So what exactly is it that you do, for him to wind up like this?"  The woman tips her head to the side, considering.  The light from the hallway slides up the side of her face, changing the architecture just enough that Claire frowns.  "...wait, don't I know you?"

The woman drops her chin, and the familiarity is lost.  "I just have one of those faces," she says.  "We're accountants.  He got mugged."

Accountants don't put coworkers as their emergency contact, as a general rule.  Neither do they have the shoulder definition Barton has, nor the peculiar callouses on his hands, nor a bone-deep record of _years_ of physical trauma...  "Mmhmm," Claire says.  "And I have a bridge to sell you.  Try again.  We can't treat him effectively if we don't know his medical history.  You _do_ know about HIPAA, right?"

The other woman looks unimpressed.  Claire is kind of tired of thinking of her as 'the other woman,' so she glances over Barton's paperwork.   _Talia Romanek_ , it tells her, and at this point, she's pretty sure it's an alias.  "Doctor-patient confidentiality has its limitations," Talia replies.  "And your network encryption is a joke, just so you know."

_Hackers?_ Claire thinks, but then, her patient's body is telling her something different.  She reaches over to the light switch beside the bed and flicks it on, hearing Talia's swift intake of breath as she does so.  "... _oh_ ," Claire says, finally placing Talia's face from news reports.  "You're- so he's- okay.  Okay.  Please don't kill me.  I know how to keep secrets.  You think Barton's the first mask I've patched up?"

Natasha Romanov lifts an eyebrow, her lips twitching again.  "You just told me that you know the identity of Daredevil," she says.

... _shit_ , Claire thinks.  It's not an unfair - or inaccurate - conclusion, after all, given where they are.  She could lie, but the only other local heroes are the ones on Natasha's team and that Spiderman kid over in Queens.  "Maybe, but I didn't tell you who he is," she points out.

"Claire Temple," Natasha says, and then starts rattling off her social security number, her address, her mother's full name and address, and-

"Stop," Claire interrupts, "Just stop."

"Told you your system sucked," Natasha says.  "And you think you can lay your healing hands on an Avenger without a background check? Please."

"So you do know I can be trusted," Claire points out.

"I didn't say that," Natasha says, her smile getting wider.  Claire gets the impression that she's having _fun_.  "I just wanted to make sure you knew the gravity of the situation."

"Your _coworker_ was brought in with a concussion - clearly not his first - internal bleeding, and a dislocated shoulder," Claire says.  "I don't think I'm the one who needs a lesson on gravity."

To her surprise, Natasha laughs at this, quick and quiet but real.  "I'm going to tell him you said that when he wakes up, he'll like that."

Claire feels herself unwinding, just a little.  "Shouldn't be too long now," she tells Natasha.

"Yeah, he tends to bounce back quick," Natasha replies, something soft creeping into her voice as she glances over at the unconscious man.

"I know the type," Claire says dryly, earning another smile.

"Hey," Natasha says, tilting her head, "If I wanted to get a message to... your _other_ patient, would you pass it along for me?"

"You're not going to shadow me for the next month or bug my phone?" Claire asks.

Natasha pauses, considering.  "I could, but that seems like a lot of work."

"It wouldn't do you any good anyway," Claire responds.  "You couldn't get within a mile of him if he didn't want you to."

"That sounds like a wager," Natasha retorts.  "But seriously, I'd like to talk to him."

"Are you thinking of recruiting him?"  Claire says, and then reflexively adds, "Please don't."

Natasha studies her for a long minute, and Claire is suddenly, keenly aware that she's trading quips with an international assassin who'd earned the name of a deadly spider and helped thwart an extraterrestrial invasion before dismantling a massive covert Nazi-riddled intelligence organization.  The type of person for whom Wilson Fisk would have been inconsequential, beneath notice.  And yet, she sounds almost _kind_ when she finally responds, "I just want to talk with him, that's all."

The hell of it is, Claire believes her.  "I can give him a message.  But I can't guarantee a response."

"That's all I'm asking," Natasha assures.  "Write this down," and Claire has only a second to scramble for the notepad in her pocket before Natasha's rattling off a string of numbers.  "That's my phone number; tell him I only want to talk."

"...okay," Claire says, tearing off the page and folding it up.  "Let me guess, it's a burner?"  She wonders if there's a superhero discount store somewhere, selling cheap flip phones in bulk next to combat boots and body armor and belts with too many pockets.

Natasha grins.  "Encrypted internet forwarding provider, actually," she says, "tethered to a burner."

"Oh, right, of course, how silly of me _,_ " Claire says, raising her eyebrows over a smirk.  And when she sees amusement dancing in Natasha's eyes, there's a moment where Claire thinks to herself, very distinctly, _Oh, oh fuck, I'm in trouble._

She gets paged to another room, then, and she eagerly excuses herself before the universe has a chance to prove her right.  The next time she checks in on Barton, Natasha's gone, but for the rest of her shift, Claire's all too aware of the slip of paper in her pocket.  It seems to have a weight, a heat, a presence to it that she wonders how no one notices it smoldering there against her chest.

 

**\- x -**

 

"You're awfully quiet," Matt says as Claire bends his wrist, flexes each of his fingers, pressing her thumb into his palm, palpating carefully.

"Mm," she hums noncommittally, and then says, "I don't think you broke anything, but you should be careful with it for the next week, or-"  she sighs "-as long as you can possibly manage."

"You're avoiding my question," Matt points out.

She lets go of his hand, strips her gloves off, and reaches for her purse, pulling a folded piece of paper from her wallet.  "Where's your phone?" she asks.

He twists in the chair, lifting his hips to get his phone out of his pocket, and she catches herself watching the flexing line of his body.  Cheeks burning, she takes his phone from his outstretched hand.  "Change your number?"

"I ran into the Black Widow," she tells him.

At this, Matt jackknifes upright in his seat, hand curling warm around her shoulder.  "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asks.  It's better than the truth, better than saying, _I don't honestly know anymore_.  

"She worked for SHIELD," he says.  "I've read her file."

"So did a lot of people," Claire says.  "And from what I hear, she helped expose that whole Hydra mess."

"But you can't know-" he says.

"And neither can you," Claire snaps.  "Besides, I like to think my judgement's been pretty solid so far when it comes to random superhero encounters, what do you think?"

"I'm not a superhero," he says.  "And your sample size is poor."

"You're a blind man who punched his way through a crime ring to take its kingpin down," she says.  "Don't get cute with me."  She finishes typing the digits, saves the entry, and hands it back to him.  "I promised her I'd give you her number and pass along a message, which is, quote, _I only want to talk_ , unquote.  There.  Promise kept; I'm staying out of it."

"Claire," he says, his voice gentle and his forehead knit in concern.  "Are you sure you're okay?  What happened with her?"

"She was at the hospital," Claire says.  "I can't tell you why.  HIPAA."  She waits for him to nod in understanding before she continues, "But I'm telling you, Matt: she might be dangerous - definitely _is_ dangerous, I know that, I could tell even if I hadn't seen fragments of her history in the news - but she wasn't a threat to me.  Just like _you're_ not, okay?  So talk to her or don't, just... don't use me as an excuse to get worked up about this."

The hard line of Matt's mouth relaxes fractionally.  "...okay," he agrees.  "I just.  I'm sorry you keep getting caught up-"

"You didn't do anything; you were unconscious when I found you.  I _chose_ to bring you into my home, to patch you up instead of calling an ambulance.  I _chose_ to help you torture a man for information and then I let you go back out on the streets when I knew you needed to rest and heal.  I _chose_ to get involved.  You didn't coerce me, didn't lie to get me to help you.  I knew I was taking a risk, and I did it anyway.  And I still keep doing it, I still keep choosing this, choosing _you_ , and-"  She doesn't realize how close he's gotten until he leans across the last bit of distance, his mouth against hers swallowing up whatever else she was going to say.  She sways into it, into the familiar taste of him, the faint rasp of his stubble along the curve of her lower lip.  A moan wells up from her chest, tremulous and raw, before she breaks away, drawing in an unsteady breath.  " _I. chose. you_ ," she asserts, framing his face with her palms and dragging him back in.

 

**\- x -**

 

"I thought you said you couldn't... fall in love with someone like me," Matt says, later.  She suppresses a sigh, thinking, _there goes the afterglow._

"That's not what I said," Claire says aloud, but she doesn't elaborate.  He's proven her wrong since then, that he knows what side of the line he belongs on, but she still believes she'd been right to worry, and she doesn't want to belabor the point.  "And who said I've fallen in love with you?  Getting a little presumptuous, aren't we?"  She lets her smile bleed through into her voice, in the teasing dance of her fingertips down his bare side, making him squirm.  "You're good, but not _that_ good."

"Well," he says, "maybe I can come back sometime when I'm _not_ injured...?"

Claire's thought about it; she's even looked up his law firm.  The number is in her phone, listed under  _don't_.  She had anyway.  A cheerful feminine voice had answered, sunshine-bright with laughter, and Claire had mumbled about a wrong number and hung up.  

She doesn't know how she fits into that part of his life, how dumpster rescues and midnight nursing and a stack of now-bloodstained towels she bought from Goodwill _just for him_ mean that she can visit his office and see him in a regular, non-armored suit and tie and act like he's a normal guy.  Normal _blind_ guy, no less - how does she pretend he can't do all the things he can do?  What would they do, go to a deli for lunch, talk about... shit, what would they even _talk_ about?  Politics, work, family?  She tries to picture him in the same room as her mother and her aunts and uncles and cousins, and it's like her brain stutters and trips.

At least he's Catholic, that's some consolation.

But.

_But_.  That's not enough.  And she's afraid that if she goes looking, finds more in this strangely-vulnerable cipher of a man, finds that they could build something real together... then what?

Here's the truth, deep, deep down: she'd rather only see him to tend his wounds every so often than hope he comes home to her in one piece every night.  She's not the type to pine, not built to pace a widow's walk.  One of the hardest lessons her job ever taught is that all she can do is help the patients within reach, but she can't let them each take pieces of her when they leave.  There is only so much she can ever do.

"Mmh," she tells him, giving in to a yawn.  "Maybe.  Someday."

There's something a little like rue in the sharp huff of breath he releases in response, the sad cousin of a laugh.  "Someday," he echoes in a murmur, and then he tucks his face in close to her neck, against her hair.  They fall asleep like that, tangled together.

Claire wakes up alone, just like any other day.

**\- x -**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

When Claire gets off work, she finds Natasha waiting outside, leaning against a motorcycle like they have a standing appointment.  Claire puts on a false smile, hoping none of her coworkers will recognize her new 'friend.'  Natasha's red hair is pulled back into two braids, less conspicuous but still noticeable.    "I thought you could use a drink," Natasha says, and holds up a paper bag.

There's no reason for an Avenger to be dropping by just to hang out, so Claire figures something must be up - something that Natasha doesn't want to talk about in a public place.  "Sounds great," she says with feigned enthusiasm.  "Your place or mine?"

Natasha tips her head, half-smiling.  "You don't want to see what my place looks like, it's a total wreck," she says, and okay, Claire's gotta give her points for that one.  "Better go to yours."

One of the medic teams slows on their way across the lot; Claire sees Liv elbow Max with a curious frown, and gives in before things go sideways.  "Sure," she says, and can't resist adding a pointed dig, "You remember where, right?"

Natasha's grin gets wider.  "Pretty sure, yeah."  She hands Claire a helmet and tucks the bottle away in a compartment on the back.

Mike - the _real_ Mike - had had a motorcycle, too, but it had been more showy and loud than the sleek and agile machine Natasha has.  Still, Claire remembers how this works, and swings her leg over with practiced ease, tucks in behind Nat's slighter, more wiry figure, and doesn't startle when the engine roars to life.  "Ready?" Natasha calls back, and Claire gives her a thumbs-up.

They fly through the streets, weaving around traffic like a needle; with a strong enough cable and enough force, they could shut the gaps between buildings, like stitching up a wound.  The familiar streets blur into streaks of color; red brick, blue and white awnings, gray concrete, yellow taxis, and the occasional, fleeting green of plants.  The sheer novelty of it leaves Claire breathless by the time they arrive at her building.

She pulls off the helmet and steadies herself, laughing.

"Not your first time on a bike, I take it?" Natasha asks.  "Do you have one?"

"No," Claire says.  "An ex did, though.  Didn't you run a whole background check on me?"

"I'm not a fan of tracking down exes," Natasha says, shrugging, "not even mine.  Though I do make the occasional exceptions..."  She retrieves the alcohol and rocks it back and forth pointedly.

"Right," Claire thinks, still strangely reluctant to go up.  She shakes it off and leads the way.

 

 **\- x -**  

 

Just because she _knows_  that Natasha's close scrutiny of her apartment is wholly tactical doesn't mean that Claire's not suddenly self-conscious: of her dirty dishes, the wilting pepper plant on her windowsill next to the much-abused aloe, the smudged handprints on her windows - _dammit, Matt_ \- and the pile of unsorted mail on her coffee table.  So she busies herself with an abbreviated version of her usual routine, dumping purse and kicking off shoes at the door and ducking into her bedroom to change out of her scrubs.

"Where are your glasses?" Natasha calls from the kitchen.

"Um," Claire thinks fast.  "What did you bring?"  She steps out of the bedroom, still pulling her favorite sweatshirt down over her hips.  "Wait, wait, _please_ tell me it's vodka."

"Now what would make you think I drink vodka?" Natasha says in a truly _terrible,_  thick Russian accent.  Even Claire can tell it's fake, and she can't help but chuckle.  "But seriously," Natasha says in her normal voice - or what Claire thinks is normal, anyway.  "I hate the stuff.  I thought white wine?"

"God yes," Claire says, relieved.  Anything stronger and she might just fall asleep after half a glass.  "Cabinet above the sink."

Natasha does as directed.  "You're awfully relaxed, you know," she comments, pulling a multi-tool from her belt and twisting the corkscrew into the bottle.

Claire crosses her arms and leans against the back of the couch.  "I figure you've got a reason to be here.  I don't know what it is yet, but it's not to kidnap me or have me bring you back from death's door, so you're already breaking the curve.  The wine gets you extra credit," she says, taking the glass that Natasha holds out, "but don't think I'm not aware of the risks I'm taking, here."  If she were being perfectly honest, she's kind of getting used to the increasing surreality of her life, same way she acclimated to the stress of her job.  Doesn't make it easy, but she knows how to keep her equilibrium, now.

"You've got a coded signal set up with Daredevil, don't you?" Natasha guesses.

"Among other things," Claire admits.  The pepper plant isn't for cooking; she puts it out on the fire escape when she gets home safely, and she brings it in when she leaves.  Matt texts her if she doesn't, and if she doesn't call back, he comes looking for her.  They'll have to change the signal when it starts getting cold, but she likes it.  It's not intrusive, but gives her a bit of reassurance that history is less likely to repeat itself.

For now, Claire leaves the pepper's pot on the side table, and takes a sip of her wine.

"What do you know about the Ranskahov brothers?" Natasha asks, curling up on Claire's couch and tipping her head inquisitively.  "Anatoly and Vladimir?"

 "Those motherfuckers?" Claire blurts.   _"That's_ why you're here?  Bit late, they're both dead, along with most of their men.  One of the only good things Wislon Fisk ever did for this city."  She takes another swallow, if only to wash the name from her tongue.

"'Most of their men' not being 'all,'" Natasha points out.  "The Ranskahovs brought something with them from home that I'd like to find, and I'm not familiar with the neighborhood..."

Claire raises her eyebrows.  "You could ask Daredevil."

"If I go to him, he'll want to be involved, and this is somewhat... _personal._ "

"...am I allowed to _know_ what I'm getting involved with?"

Natasha sighs and settles back into the couch cushions, staring at the wine glass in her hands.  "Yeah," she concedes finally, "you might need to know.  If things go south, you might get some confusion at the hospital."

"Shit," Claire says.

"Yeah," Natasha agrees.  "Just... I need you to leave your friend out of it, can you do that?"

Now it's Claire's turn to take a long, considering pause.  "On one condition," she says.  "You give me another number I can call if I know you're in trouble."

"Done," Natasha replies, too easily.  Maybe she doesn't think she'll get in trouble, maybe she's capitulating for some other reason, it's hard to be sure.  "After all, you've already met Clint."

"C- oh, right, your fellow _accountant._ "

"That's the one," Natasha says, getting out her phone.  "I'll forward you his number.  FYI, he prefers texts to calls."

"Because of the hearing thing, gotcha," Claire says, feeling her phone buzz in her pocket a moment later.  Somehow, it's this comment that makes Natasha look wary.  "I checked in on him so many times I practically have his chart memorized."

"...ah," Natasha says.  "That's something else you should maybe keep to yourself."

"HIPAA," Claire reminds her.  "His paperwork gives _you_ permission to know things, but that's as far as it goes.  Um, out of curiosity, are you two--?"

Natasha's frown breaks up like morning fog, and that's enough of an answer for Claire.  "...kind of.  It's complicated."

"I can sympathize," Claire confesses, and the smile Natasha gives her feels real.  "One sec, I need to water the plants before I forget.  I mean, you can still talk, if you want..."  She sets down her glass and goes to put the pepper outside.

Natasha reaches for the wine bottle, refilling her glass and Claire's, then takes a deep breath before she begins.  "Most of this is in my file already, but some key particulars were redacted or strategically altered by the Director for his own reasons.  The first thing you should know is: I'm older than I look..."

And _then_ she tells Claire about the Red Room and the work of Dr. Lyudmila Kudrin.

 

**\- x -**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help I somehow fell into plot. D8
> 
> ...I did not plan the _pepper's pot_ phrase even a little, but once I typed it, I kind of stared at it a while before deciding that it was too ridiculous to _not_ share. Gratuitous, sure, but hey.


	3. Chapter 3

"...biotech," Claire says. "Brainwashing _kids_."

"Yep," Natasha says, and there's something empty in her eyes, in her voice, when she says it, as if telling Claire has hollowed her out, secrets and stories the only thing filling her up.

"And you think the Russians - sorry, the Ranskahovs - got their hands on some of the tech, smuggled it out of the country."

"There's a reason they were jailed and not simply shot," Natasha says.  "I'll hand it to them, though, they held out a long time in that pit before they escaped."

Claire thinks about it for a minute, what little she remembers about the Russians from gossip and the glimpses she got in the garage, trying to shy away from the reality behind the words _human trafficking_ and _heroin distribution_ and _protection rackets._ It's easier for her to extrapolate forwards to ER visits and police reports than backwards to crime rings and kingpins.  Which is why she does what she does, and Natasha and Matt do what _they_ do, she supposes.  "They weren't exactly subtle guys, though," she comments.  "This doesn't seem like their style."

Natasha sighs.  "Which is what I'm afraid of.  I think they sold it to someone for start-up money, but I haven't been able to find a whisper..."

"Great," Claire says.  "So I should keep an eye out for _failed experiments,_ is that it?"  Her voice sounds bitter even to her own ears.

Natasha looks sympathetic, leaning forward to put her hand on Claire's wrist.  "No," she says.  "Let me know if _hurt children come_ in, ones without families or records, who don't know English..."

"You don't know Hell's Kitchen that well, do you?" Claire asks.  "Because that kind of thing doesn't exactly stand out here."

Natasha's gaze drops, and her hand tightens fractionally on Claire's arm.  "No wonder the Ranskahovs felt at home," she says, and pulls away.

Now Claire feels like an asshole.  "Why are you doing this?" she asks, suddenly.  "I mean, I get it, this is personal, you want to keep people from getting hurt-" _the way you did,_ she leaves unspoken "-but why are you coming to me?  Why are you trusting _me_ with all of this?"

"I've been..." Natasha starts, then stops, frowning.  "Trying new things.  Also, a really annoying friend of mine keeps telling me that I need to open up more, take risks.  Trust my gut."

Claire raises one eyebrow.  "I swear to god, if you say that this friend is _Thor,_ or Captain America..."

This surprises a smile out of Natasha.  "No, it's not Cap, but they're close, too."  

Claire is sitting with someone who has a _nickname_ for Captain America.  She drains the rest of her glass.  "I still don't know why I make the cut, but honestly, I'm just grateful to get a heads-up on the next catastrophe."

"My goal is to stop it before it gets that far," Natasha says.  "But you know what they say about best-laid plans..."

 

**\- x -**

 

"Were you going to tell me about your visitor?" Matt asks as she finishes winding his bruised ribs with an ace bandage, securing it with the little clips she holds between her teeth.

"I have to clear my house guests by you now?" Claire asks.

"...no, but when you have Black Widow in your living room, and-" his nostrils flare, and she thwacks him gently with the back of her hand "-ow, and in your kitchen..."

"Stop _sniffing_ my apartment, you ass," she says, but he can probably hear the smile in her voice, so it's a wash.  "What can you even smell from her? Perfume?"

"No, she... she uses a lot of scent-free products, actually, it's kind of nice.  But she still carries traces of... ozone, cordite, leather, and... tsubaki oil, I think."  

"Mm," Claire says.  She's thinking about a roomful of little girls, all in a row... She should watch for an uptick in dance- or gymnastics-related injuries.  Maybe cheerleading? what other covers could they use?

"-stay?" Matt's asking.

"Sure," she says, only half-registering the question.

"Really?"

Claire stops, rewinds the conversation to review it, same way she's learned to juggle instructions at a hospital.  "Yeah, you can stay," she says.  Maybe he'll distract her.  Maybe she won't have nightmares about hollow-eyed little girls handcuffed to gurneys.  Maybe his demons will scare hers away.  "Just for the night."

 

**\- x -**

 

Another shift, another fun answer to the unasked question, " _What_ did that patient put _where?_ "  Children swallowing pennies is standard, but Claire has no clue where to even _get_ a ten-sided die, let alone why would a kid would want to put one in his nose.

Mercifully, she gets off work on time, but it's only the second of her three 12-hour shifts this week, and she can already tell that the first of her four days off is going to be spent sleeping.  If she doesn't get called in.  Just thinking about it makes her want to go to bed and nail her door shut.

She's so focused on getting _homehomehome_ that when she runs into two men arguing in the lot between the side exit and her bus stop, it takes her a minute to react.  Her first reflex is to break it up, leftover instinct from handling unruly patients, but one is a police officer, so that draws her up short and makes her reassess the situation.

"Hey Brett," she says, as they stare at her with varying degrees of guilt and checked frustration.  "And... I'm sorry, I forgot your name, um."  She doesn't even remember how she knows him, maybe a patient's relative or--

"Foggy Nelson," the blonde guy offers with a fleeting, nervous smile.  

"Right, Matt's friend," she says, smiling back reassuringly while calculating just how quick she can get disentangled from... whatever this is.

"Partner," Foggy corrects, unnecessarily.  "At our law firm."

"You know Matt?" Brett interrupts.

"Mugging," she says.

At the same time, Foggy says, "One of our clients--"

There's a stilted pause, and Brett looks supremely unimpressed.

"One of his clients got mugged," she says, splitting the difference.

" _Riiight_ ," Brett replies, drawing the word out.  "So you have no idea why I keep seeing Matt with new injuries every other week."

"He's a klutz," Foggy says, laughing thinly.

"Foggy," Brett says, sighing like he's got a weight on his chest, "Do you have any idea how that sounds?  I _know_ you, man, so I'm not jumping to any conclusions, but to anybody else..."

He's right, of course.  Foggy's acting exactly like someone covering for abuse, and Brett probably knows the rates of that kind of thing for those with disabilities as well as Claire.

"Mahoney," she says, sighing, "if, hypothetically, Matt Murdock were my patient for any reason, I wouldn't be able to disclose--"

"But if it involves an assault or criminal activity--" he interjects.

"Is Matt the subject of an official investigation?" she asks.  She's cutting it pretty fine, here.  Matt's not officially her patient, and if he were, she is legally required to report injuries clearly sustained in the kind of unlawful action that Matt's turned into an art form, but if Brett's not asking on the record, she's got no obligation.

"...no," he concedes, recognizing the impasse.  "Look, I'm only asking because, _hypothetically_ , Matt might need someone on the force who's on his side.  And I can't do that if I'm kept in the dark."

"Guys," she says, "I'm tired.  I just want to go home."  And she wants maybe a twenty-four hour stretch where she's not saddled with superhero bullshit.  It feels like every day, she's patching up either Matt or one of his unfortunate targets.  And when she's not, she still sees people coming in regularly with lingering chronic issues from getting caught in the 'Incident.'  There's at least one researcher who's a singular pain in the ass when it comes to respiratory infections sustained from inhaling gas and particulates from crashed extra-terrestrial tech, and three more behind _him_ clamoring for all kinds of data and samples and interviews with first responders and ER staff.  "Please."

"Oh my god, yes, absolutely, go home," Foggy babbles, stepping back and waving at her like they're at LaGuardia and he's holding those light-up traffic wands.

"You know how to get in touch with me," Brett says, "Just in case."

"Yeah," she says.  "Thanks."  

Then her bus rounds the corner, so she has to sprint to catch it.

 

**\- x -**

 

The universe must have taken pity on her, or Foggy must have said something to Matt, because Claire doesn't get twenty-four hours, she gets three full days where she can pretend that her life is as normal as it used to be.  She works, gets a long call from her mom filled with gossip about the family and complaints about the neighbors and two recipes she'll never use but writes down anyway.  On her days off, she does laundry and the few dishes she's used in-between ordering take-out and changes her sheets and cleans her windows while watching half a season of _Helix_ straight through.

(It's a thoroughly ridiculous show, but one of the lab techs recommended it because the actors use pipettes correctly and don't stick needles all the way in, which is more than Claire has come to expect from most medical dramas.)

She's staring at her closet one morning, debating the relative merits of going out to lunch with friends versus reorganizing her wardrobe for winter when she realizes she's _bored_.

"Oh, fuck my whole entire life," she says aloud, then grabs the neglected gym bag from the bottom of her closet, pausing only to grab her wallet from her purse.  Five minutes' walk and a ten minute wait later, she's on the M12 heading southwest on 11th.  It's a half hour ride, and the bus isn't crowded this time of day, so she lets herself zone out a little on the way to the stop at 22nd.

She tries not to think about masks and about triage and about secrets.  Tries not to think about little girls with blades in their hands and blood under their fingernails.

The batting cages at Chelsea Piers are full, but there's no one waiting.  Just a few die-hards, two she can tell have real experience and one with bad form and top-of-the-line equipment that glints like it's brand new.  At the end, there's a small cluster of kids goofing off and posturing, taking turns in the cage.  They all have matching t-shirts but she can't read what's on the backs.  Probably a team, or a gym class on a trip.

Claire gets a locker and a handful of tokens and settles on a bench to lace up the worn cleats she's had since college, before she switched majors to nursing and got too busy to play regularly.  In high school, she'd had to replace spikes twice a season.  It's been a while since she's been on a team, though - the surgeons have one and play against the doctors from pedes and the number-crunchers in billing, but too few nurses are both interested and have time in their schedules.  

She stretches and does a few warm-ups while she waits for a cage to clear.  The rich guy leaves with a scowl and a wince when he tries to roll the tension out of his back.  He probably over-extended at some point and decided to tough it out instead of listening to his body.  Claire knows a few exercises that'll help with that kind of injury, but she's off the clock and he seems like the type to read helpfulness as a come-on.

She puts on her helmet, nails catching on the faded stickers and scuffs on its eggplant-dark surface, and puts in her tokens, setting the speed to something that'll keep her thoughts from drifting.  The machine spins up and she makes sure her feet are square, relaxes her elbows and knees, and remembers to soften her grip just in time for the first pitch.  She swings too high on the first, too fast on the second, but she digs in, steps forward into the third pitch, and connects with a hollow metallic clang that hums through her palms.

The ball spins off at an oblique angle, but she's just getting started.  Over the next half hour, she acquits herself fairly well, though she's still too uneven for anything remotely competitive.  This is enough for now: inhabiting her body as more than a vehicle for helping others, fueled by adrenaline and desperation and caffeine and sheer cussed stubbornness.  

The kids are laughing, the group breaking up.  Two parents come for their son, a daughter in pigtails and plaid trailing behind them.  The girl's watching the older kids warily with all the reticence of the bullied.

Claire had dealt with her share of teasing as a kid, but she'd only ever been a target of convenience, not habitually tormented.  She'd been more likely to divert bullies' attention away when she saw things getting bad, talk them down with cajoling and sarcasm in equal measure, get the school nurse after when she couldn't keep the peace.

Story of her life, really.

She considers paying for another half hour, but there are a couple of guys over by the benches looking impatient in their own gear.  She packs up and heads out.  There's no rush for her to get anywhere, so she spends a few minutes loitering in a disused doorway with peeling red paint and yellow newspaper pasted to the window, trying to decide whether she's hungry.  She should probably eat.

There's a full dozen bakeries specializing in frou-frou cupcakes and macarons within walking distance, but she'd rather wait and get an egg salad croissant from the deli around the corner from her apartment, or a solid slab of lemon pound cake and a cortado from the Rex a block down from her bus stop.

In retrospect, she should have gone to the deli.  Rex is way too crowded, and the pickup line crowds against the tables in the front window.  Claire dodges a diaper bag to the sternum and steps on a seated patron's foot.  "I'm so sorry," Claire says, and feels her face heat when she sees the woman's black-and white habit.  "Oh, sh-  I'm so, so sorry, Sister..."  Claire tries again.

"It's all right," the nun replies blithely, waving one hand.

"I'm pretty sure Sister Rita has steel toes in those ergonomic penny-loafers, anyway," a familiar voice interjects, and Claire sees that Matt's sitting on the other side of the table, beaming merrily up at her, head tilted two degrees off from her face.

"Matthew," Sister Rita scolds, then pauses, sizing up their expressions with a sharp glance.  "Do you two know each other?"

"Yes, actually," Matt says.  "Sister, this is my friend Claire, she's a nurse at Metro-General; Claire, this is sister Rita, she runs the orphanage I grew up in."

"And I'm hoping to be a client of his firm," Sister Rita adds.

"It's nice to meet you," Claire says, "I'm sure Matt will do everything in his power to help you."

Matt's eyebrows lift up above his glasses.  (Are those red lenses? _Really?)_   "I'm not sure this is something Nelson and Murdock can handle, unfortunately.  You're looking for a private investigator, or maybe I can pass your name along to a detective friend of mine on the force..."

"The police already told us there was nothing they could do; once the adoptions were finalized, our legal obligations to the children - and our rights - ended."

Claire frowns.  "Are the children missing, or being hurt?"  It's not her business, it's _not_ , except it could be _Nat's_ business, and knowing Matt, Daredevil is about to get a piece of the action, too.

"We don't know," Sister Rita says, spreading her hands wide.  "We haven't been able to get a hold of the parents, either, and all of their contact numbers - home, businesses, schools - have been disconnected."

"They haven't moved?" Matt asks.

"Not as far as we know.  Their old neighbors and landlords don't know anything, either.  It's like they never existed."

"If you have names, ages, descriptions, I can keep an eye out for them in the ER," Claire offers.  Technically, she can't tell Sister Rita (or Matt, or Natasha) whether she's seen them, but she can tell Mia from social services that 'someone from the community has expressed concern about these kids...' and that'll get the ball rolling.

And in the meantime, Natasha can run her own investigation based on the descriptions.  Win-win.

"That would be very kind of you, thank you," Sister Rita says, pulling out a phone.  "Would email work for you?"

"Absolutely," Claire says, and waits for the other woman to figure out how to access the restaurant's wifi.

If Matt weren't blind, she'd say he was staring, head tilted quizzically as he frowns in her direction.  "What?" she whispers in the faintest of breaths, knowing he'll hear it but it'll be covered by the ambient noise to anyone else's ears.  He shrugs imperceptibly and shakes his head.

"Ah, there we go," Sister Rita says.  "I'm not _terribly_ fond of this silly thing, but it does come in handy sometimes.  What's your address again, Claire?"

 

**\- x -**

 

Claire forwards the information to Natasha as soon as she gets home, and then wastes a few hours on pinterest, somehow getting sucked into ten different boards of elaborate treehouse architecture while pretending that she doesn't need to clean out her fridge.  Living in the woods doesn't sound so bad, sometimes.  It sounds quiet.

God, she needs a vacation.

Her fire escape rattles, and she jumps a foot as Matt says through her window, "Are you okay?"

" _¡Mierda!_ " Claire spits.  "Don't _do_ that."

"Sorry, I thought you might be in trouble," Matt says.  "You didn't put the pepper out."

Claire sighs, pushing her hair out of her eyes.  "No, no, I just forgot, I'm sorry."

"Is everything all right?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she says.  She's pretty sure it's even mostly true.  "Go home, Matt."  He crouches down, sitting more comfortably on the sill, and she notices he's still wearing his lawyer suit.  "Go get your mask and armor if you're going to be jumping around rooftops, will you?"

"Who says I'm not?" Matt says with a slight smirk as he pulls his glasses out of his pocket and puts them on, shielding his eyes as effectively as his helmet.  His knuckles are bruised.

"Oh shut up, smartass," she says, throwing a pillow at him and laughing despite herself.

He catches it mid-air and props it between his spine and the metal rail for the screen.  "Hey, prosecutors are _scary_ ," he protests, smile broader now.  "Can't go into court without _some_ protection."

"Yeah, uh huh," she says.  "That tie is top of the line kevlar, then?  Explains why it's tied so sloppy."

"Well," he says, shrugging.  "Mirrors don't really work for me."

"You can tell what my neighbor had for breakfast yesterday, but you can't use a mirror?"

Matt shakes his head.  "Nope."

"Huh.  The more you know."

"Mirrors, screens, billboards, flat signs and posters...  Sometimes I can tell when a light changes because the faint electric hum will switch from one bulb to the next, but it's difficult to focus on that kind of thing when there's a lot of ambient noise."

Claire nods, filing the information away.  She's still not really clear on how his perception of the world works.  It's not quite - or solely - echolocation, but some complex combination of heightened senses, including proprioception and thermoception.  "Why are you here, Matt?  And don't tell me it's because of the pepper.  You could hear my heartbeat, that I was alone in the apartment; you knew I wasn't in any danger."

Matt takes a deep breath, fidgeting with his hands.  "...do you want to get dinner?"

So _that's_ why he's still in his office outfit.  She prods, "Go out or order in?"

He shrugs again, too casual.  "Up to you."

She watches him for a minute before answering, feels him watching her right back in his own way.  "Where do you and your friends usually go after work?  Are they there without you right now?"

There's a flicker-flash of a frown on his face before he nods, "Yeah, they're either at the all-night diner by the office, or over at Josie's bar, by my place."

"Ooh, I could go for some strong coffee and inappropriately-timed french toast," she says, standing up and getting her purse.

" _Claire_ ,"  Matt says reproachfully.  "There's no such thing as an inappropriate time for breakfast food."

She laughs.  "Let's go.  Tell your friends we're on our way."

"Are you sure-" he asks.

"You trying to change my mind?"  It'll be nice to see Foggy when she's not wearing scrubs, and doesn't smell like betadine and hand sanitizer.  "Chickening out?"

"Oh," he says, tumbling into the living room like a gymnast without knocking into any furniture, tossing the cushion back onto her couch.  "Oh, is that how we're playing this?"

"Yes," she says, letting him hear the laughter effervescing in her voice.  "Hey, close and lock that window; we're using the real stairs like civilized human beings."  As he complies, she slips on her shoes and checks her hair in the small mirror on the wall by the door.  "How do I-?" she starts, out of habit, then cuts herself off with a rueful grimace.

"I'm sure you look fine," Matt says, coming up beside her and settling his hand in the small of her back.  "Let's go before one of us loses their nerve."

"Good idea."  She leans into his side.  "And you're buying."

 

**\- x -**

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Claire can tell what booth Matt's friends are sitting at immediately: Foggy's back is to the door, but there's a very pretty blonde girl facing the entrance who lights up like a Broadway marquee when she spots Matt.  Claire wonders, a little, about that, but the girl's smile doesn't dim when she sees Matt's hand on Claire's arm, and Foggy looks equally delighted to see them both, so Claire tables her suspicions.  Matt introduces them.  "You know Foggy, of course," he says, and Foggy gives a little salute, "and this is Karen, she keeps our office running.  Karen, this is Claire."

"So you're the one who found Matt after he got mugged!" Karen says.  "Sit next to me, you have to tell me _everything_."

"Is _that_ what Matt told you?" Claire asks, glancing at Foggy, whose expression has gone a little strained.  Claire takes the seat next to Karen and stashes her purse between their hips.  Karen takes it and puts it on the windowsill next to her own.

"Is that not how it happened?" Karen asks, sliding a cup and saucer towards Matt, and a second towards Claire.

They're in a public place, and it's not Claire's hobby to fix more of Matt's bad life decisions than she can handle with a first aid field kit, so she plays along.  "My neighbor found him in the alley, actually, and came to get me."  The waitress strolls by with a coffee pot, and Claire flips her cup right-side up.  "I was the one who patched him up."

"Well, I'm glad you're around, he keeps running into doors," Karen says, and now it's her smile that's getting a little sharp around the edges as she directs it across the table.  Foggy coughs and adds another creamer to his coffee.

"So what do you do, Karen, when you're not making these two look competent?" Claire asks, stirring an ice cube into her own drink.

"Ooh, ooh, tell her about the blog," Foggy says.

Claire blushes, tucking her long hair behind her ear.  "It's not that big a deal.  I just... I talk to people?  I listen to their stories about life after the Incident."

"It's like Humans of New York but less hipster," Foggy comments.  "Has more of a focus."

"And there are no photos of people, just of buildings and stuff occasionally," Karen says.  "It's all anonymous.  A lot of them are clients, or relatives of clients."

Claire snags a menu and starts skimming the specials.  "I'll have to send some folks your way," she says, "One of the guys in my building has a funny story about seeing the Avengers at his dad's shawarma place.  I'm pretty sure he's making it up, but he says he has Tony Stark's autograph on a chunk of rubble, so it could be true."  She shrugs.  "Hey, what's good here?"

"Nothing that's not fried," Foggy tells her.

"Hey, I like their corn chowder," Matt protests.

"That's because you have the weirdest palate known to man," Karen says, eliciting a chuckle from Foggy.  "You should see his lunch orders."  She gives a small shudder.

"Really?" Claire asks, laughing a little herself.  Matt ducks his head, looking like a bashful twelve-year-old. How does he _do_ that?  She's seen him scare the literal crap out of carjackers, he shouldn't be that _cute_.

"Don't get me started," Foggy says.  "For a month solid during college, he put Sriracha and bacon in his instant oatmeal for breakfast.  And when we ran out of bacon, he used cut-up beef jerky."

"Ohhh, seriously?"  Karen says, voice muffled through the hand she's holding over her mouth.

"Savory oatmeal is a thing!" Matt says.  "I needed the protein - we had finals!"

"That doesn't sound _completely_ revolting," Claire comments.  "...but I'm never letting you cook for me."

"Okay, no, see, Foggy has no stones to throw, with his quadruple-brewed coffee," Matt says.  "I swear to god, it had the consistency of chocolate syrup, but grainier."  He makes an eloquent face that speaks _volumes_ about that textural delight.

"Well, if we're going to talk about inadvisable methods of ingesting caffeine, let me tell you what we did in nursing school..."  Claire starts, enjoying the preemptive apprehension forming on Foggy's face.

 

**-x-**

 

They take her to Josie's after the diner, and despite all the food she'd eaten, Claire is totally unprepared to keep up with Foggy and Karen as they order multiple rounds of cheap, strong booze that looks fairly innocuous but _really_   _isn't_.  It takes her a while to realize that Matt's not even trying to match their consumption, instead slipping his untouched drinks over to the other side of the table where they'll be blithely claimed by one of his friends.

She decides to follow his lead, not because she's a lightweight, but because she's not as young as she used to be, and she doesn't want to spend her last precious day off fighting a vicious hangover.  She waves off the next round and goes to the bathroom for a moment's respite.  Karen trots after her, flushed and giggly and bright-eyed, turning immediately to the mirror and the sink to check her appearance while Claire avails herself of the single, cramped stall.

No one else is in there, and it's quiet for a moment before Karen asks, voice suddenly serious, "Hey, Claire?"

"...yeah?"

"Are you and Matt, y'know... together?"

Claire sighs, leaning forward to put her elbows on her knees and her face in her palms.  "...Kind of?  It's complicated."

"Oh."  Silence descends again, and Claire finishes her business, unlocking the door to find Karen leaning against the wall, chin lifted in challenge.  "Are you the one that's hurting him?"

_Oh, Jesus._  Claire is so startled by the question that she almost laughs, but catches herself just in time.  "No," she says firmly, washing her hands with the brisk, efficient motions she's turned into habit.  When she glances up in the mirror, Karen's still looking at her.

"...it's just, we've had some clients, so I've had to do research, and caregivers are usually-" she stops short when Claire turns to face her directly.

Drying off her hands, Claire says, "You're right about those cases, you are, and it's good you know.  But I promise you, Matt is not one of those statistics, he's really not.  He's an outlier, way off in his own category."  Okay, that might be a bit too much information.   _Definitely_ time to dial back on the liquor consumption.

"What do you mean?" Karen asks, frowning.

"Just..." Claire sighs, tossing the paper towels on top of the overflowing trash can.  "Matt can take care of himself better than most able-bodied people I know.  I'm not his _caregiver_.  I'm..."  She cuts herself off there, not knowing how to finish that sentence.  "You should talk to him about this."

"I've tried," Karen says.  "He's, like... the most inconsistently candid guy I've ever met.  One minute, he's telling me how he paid for undergrad with money his dad made with illegal gambling, and the next, he's dodging questions about why he had to get a new coffee table."

Claire huffs a slight laugh.  "Yeah, that sounds like Matt, all right."  She pauses, then decides she's had enough alcohol to excuse what she's about to ask.  "Karen, do you have a... _thing_  for Matt?"  Karen's eyes are wide with alarm, looking very blue even in the dingy lighting.  "Because I'm too damn old to deal with relationship drama, and my life is messy enough as it is."

Karen shrugs.  "It's kind of hard to have a thing for a guy who doesn't always tell you the truth," she responds eventually.

"Not hard," Claire says.  "Just not something I'd recommend, either.   _That_ I can tell you from experience."

Karen smiles a little ruefully.  "Good to know.  But... if you're asking if I'm going to be some conniving, jealous bitch about you and Matt dating, then no.  You're not the only one whose life is too messy for that shit.  Besides, I don't know very many people in the city outside work and criminals and clients...  it's kinda nice to talk to someone who isn't intimately involved with the criminal justice system."

Claire bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing again.

 

**\- x -**

 

Matt walks Claire to her apartment.  She's mostly sober now; the conversation with Karen had taken the top edge off, and a few non-alcoholic beverages over the course of the last hour had helped.  If she were more sober or more tipsy, she'd consider inviting Matt up, but she's in the sweet spot where she knows better but isn't going to over-think that decision.

"You and Karen were gone a while earlier," he comments casually.

Claire gives him a sidelong smile, squeezing his hand between her bent elbow and waist.  "...and you heard every word, don't pretend you didn't."

"I might've heard some," he allows.  "I wanted to make sure you weren't getting sick in there."

"Foggy caught you eavesdropping and told you to stop, didn't he."

Matt's face splits into that wide, boyish grin of his.  "No, actually, he wanted to know if you were talking about him."

Claire laughs.  "Liar."

"Hand to God," he says, lifting his palm like he's taking an oath on the stand.

When they get to her door, she lets Matt kiss her, slow and teasingly soft, their hands tangling as if they're normal people on a normal date.  He pulls away, tracing the line of her lips with his fingertips.  "What?" he asks.  "I could feel you smiling."

"Was this our first actual date?" she asks.

He tilts his head quizzically, eyebrows lifting.  "...do you want it to be?"

Claire kisses him again.  It's the best answer she can give him.

 

**\- x -**

 

"Hey," Natasha says from the kitchen when Claire opens her door.  Claire yelps and drops her keys.

"Don't _do_ that," she says.  "What the hell are you even-?"

Natasha has Claire's makeup mirror propped on the paper towel holder above the sink, and crimson blood is drying in streaks down her cheek and jaw and collarbone as she cranes to see the gash on her neck, hands busy with needle and suturing thread.  A neat row of interrupted stitches already closes another cut above her eyebrow.  "I needed your supplies," Nat says in a projected murmur, as calm as if she's applying eyeliner.

Claire watches her tie another knot.

Three things happen next, in quick succession: the window rattles; Natasha spins, Claire's paring knife glinting in a straight arc from Nat's extended arm until it deflects off something and embeds itself in the side of her armchair; and one of Claire's heavy brass candle-holders sails across the room towards Natasha from a shadow by the window.

Without thinking about it, Claire's stepping between the two, half of her brain shrieking _Danger!_ and the other half filled with a calm certainty that resolves into dawning recognition.  "Stop!" she says, and they both do.  "It's okay.  Everything's _fine_."

"I heard you shout," Matt says.

"I'm _fine_.  Are you wearing your cowl?"  Claire asks him.

"...I already know who he is," Natasha says.

Claire turns on the light.  "Okay, so.  Introductions.  Like civilized adults.  Matt, this is Natasha Romanov.  Natasha, this is Matt Murdock."

Matt nods, shoulders relaxing though his hands still flex restlessly at his sides.

"Charmed," Natasha drawls, pressing a towel to the cut on her neck.  It's not one of Claire's nice ones, at least.

Claire dumps her purse and toes off her shoes, turning to lock her front door mostly for the ritual of it more than any sense of security.  "Now, if you still want to fight, take it outside.  And put my shit back when you're done with it."

She goes back to her bedroom and closes that door, too.

 

**\- x -**

 

 

 


End file.
